


The Ruin of the King

by The Curator of The Sands (GrimRevolution)



Series: A Little Touch of Cleverness [2]
Category: A Little Touch Of Cleverness
Genre: Blood, Death, Gen, Graphic Violence, Odd Point Of View, Story within a Story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-23 03:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8312578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrimRevolution/pseuds/The%20Curator%20of%20The%20Sands
Summary: Some called him great, wise, powerful. But grief tore him apart and now there is nothing. Nothing but ruin, nothing but darkness, nothing but death. The curse has risen, it has consumed.
It will destroy them all.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a side story to the Little Touch of Cleverness series. It is one of five which will explain the origins of the kwamis and explain a lot of the characters that will show up. Thank you for reading!

Mount Vergalor, the great place of wanderers, truth seekers, and the lost had a blizzard swirling around one of its more treacherous paths. With very little shelter to be found, the group of Jubadian scholars had to make do with the bent trees, thick tarps, and rope to keep the elements away and out of their sleeping quarters.

Outside, the wind howled and battered at the flimsy shelter, demanding to be let in.

Lanterns crackled, a small comfort underneath the raging storm. One of the students on the expedition, a boy named Razanur, was unable to sleep and stared at the flickering light. It played across his hair, turning the bone colour to something resembling gold as the man who offered to lead them to the top of the mountain, a bard who only called himself Gashla, wrote in a journal.

The scraping quill was rhythmic, creating a strange music with each flap of the tarp and, yet, the boy still could not sleep. So far the bard had been a quiet man, simply leading them up the rough terrain, keeping to himself and very rarely speaking a word. The village he came from, the one at the base of the mountain, was known for its welcome and its silence on the path ahead. Mount Vergalor was a test, they said. A test for those who were lost, those who were seeking truth, and those who came for a challenge. Not all returned and those that did were changed. Something was at the top, people whispered, and even more said that at the summit the sky was so close the stars could be touched.

“You will not have the energy to climb if you stay awake,” the bard spoke, not looking up from his journal.

“I—” Razanur rubbed the grime from his eyes and sat up, careful not to disturb those sleeping around him, curled up in their furs and wool. “You’re right, it’s just... I can’t sleep.”

Gashla eyes rose even though his head did not. “I am not surprised,” he said and turned his attention back to his writings, “Today is the day the veil opens and the mist comes.”

Outside, the wind screamed protest and slammed against the tarp, clawing at the fabric as if to tear it asunder like a wild beast.

A chill settled upon Razanur’s bones and he took a stiff, shuddering breath to calm the sudden thunder of his heart. “The mist?”

“You claim to come from a school and, yet, they have not told you about the mists?” The bard looked fairly amused and shook his head. Placing the pen carefully back in its leather case, Gashla packed up his notebook, settled his heavy robes and furs around him, and turned to the boy across from him. “This is, perhaps, not a story for a night like tonight when the sky is dark and the winds are angry, but it is a good story.” His dark eyes seemed sharper in the dim light, the sun worn skin of his face tightening around his mouth. “You are alive and, therefore, must learn so you will know when the mist comes for you—as it comes for all things.”

Razanur pulled a blanket up around his shoulders and leaned in as the bard began to speak.

“A very long time ago there was a kingdom on the edge of the sea. No one remembers the name, no one remembers where, exactly, it was, but they remember the king, they remember the soldier, they remember the knight, and they know what death their grief has caused...”

oOo

It began with hope and with love, as many old tales do. The King was a proud man and he was young, new to the crown and new to power, but he was good and kind and his people looked forward to long years of peace and plenty. His wife was beautiful in spirit and people said that it made her beautiful in face as well. She was just and loved her country, her people, and her husband with a fierce deep love that raged like the wind.

The queen’s sister died in childbirth and she had taken in her niece at a young age, a woman who will grow up to be known as The Golden General, but her name, as it is told in whispered words in the shadows of this world, is Natela.

Yes, boy, _is_. She is still here, she will always be here. As long as there is hatred and betrayal, as long as there is greed in the hearts of creatures, Natela will walk among us.

Back then, Natela was more than a shade, more than a whispered name in the dark. Her armour was bright, her horse was a beast that thundered across the battlefield, and her spear flew true. She fought for her aunt and uncle, and became a warrior many looked up to.

There are many different tales of how it began; nothing more than an accident, a lax guard when the castle was asleep, a poisoned cup during supper. The written story is that the queen and king held a party to celebrate another year and Natela was tasked with the duty to watch over the king as he celebrated.

Oh, you scoff, but it was an honour to _her_. You see, to watch over the king was the greatest trust, the greatest test. It was a noble thing because Natela was still young and she was given the opportunity for greatness. Had things not turned out the way they had, she would have gone on and, perhaps, the world would have been better for her contribution.

Or, like most of us, her name would have been forgotten. Erased like so many others.

As it is, the king was attacked that evening. An assassin sent by one of the kingdom’s enemies had snuck in and tried to strike a killing blow, but it was deflected by Natela’s strong arm and the weapon slid across the floor and under the royal table. He was taken away to await his punishment but the damage had been done.

The king was untouched, but the blade, the one that had slid beneath the table, had pierced the queen’s foot. It was poisoned, the healers said. Poisoned by nature and twisted magic.

And so it came that the queen, who many loved, grew sick.

In desperation, Natela took her horse and raced for the House of Scholars for help. There she stayed for three days and three nights, reading every book and scroll the teachers there had collected, but it was all for naught.

With no cure found in the dust and vellum, the Golden General went back to her King empty handed. But she was not hopeless. ‘Perhaps another will have the answers’ she urged the King. ‘Perhaps there is one out there with the knowledge we seek.’

Low on hope but with faith in Natela, the King sent her out to his allies, hoping that those great countries might be able to answer his questions. While the Golden General prepared for her journey, the King sat next to his wife’s sickbed.

There he would be for many days, unmoved as he watched and waited.

Natela packed her things; food, water, maps, her tools and her weapons. Her horse, a war steed that had taken her into battle many a time before, was restless and she was grooming him the night before she left when she saw Quirinus.

Quirinus? Ah, well, there is not a lot written about him, you see. What we do know is that he was a Knight of the Serpent Order, an organization that spread across borders to provide protection to people but were free to call the government of the land in question. It was quite a different type of idea that worked at the time because these knights didn’t answer to anyone but their own leader.

Punishment, justice, training, it was all done by them.

_Nomads_ , yes, thank you lad, that is a good word for it. They were, indeed, nomads but those that wished for justice and truth to prevail. You can imagine Natela’s relief when Quirinus and his knights arrived in the kingdom. Knowing that the assassin was sent from an enemy but not who, she asked for the Knight to watch over the King and the kingdom.

Quirinus, as was his duty, agreed and watched her leave the following morning, riding out to the north.

oOo

Galsha paused to take a long drink of his wineskin and pulled a soft, leather bag from his many pocket pack. Across from him, Razanur pulled the blue cloak he wore around his shoulders closer to his body, hands hesitating over the brooch that held it shut. “The Order of the Serpent,” he asked as the bard was lighting a pipe that looked like the talons of some great creature holding an egg with blackened marks around the opening, “It was known to be honourable, wasn’t it?”

“So they say,” Galsha agreed, his dark eyes glinting with a soft humour and flicked his thumb over bowl. A spark flew and lit the contents, making the claws glow a faint amber for a moment.

_Fire magic_ , Razanur thought offhandedly. It wasn’t all that new, many of the people who lived at the base of the mountain had a fair number of elemental magicians. “Then why such a change?” He wondered, “With the snake, I mean. In many places the people use the term to describe someone with honourless intentions.”

“Ah,” smoke breathed out, clouding around Galsha’s face and making the pipe seem brighter. “That _is_ an interesting question, you see, because your people—the Jubadians—they use the snake as a term of treachery but should you go south, say, to the caravans, herders, and mercenaries of Amnu the snake is still a symbol of honour, life, and healing.”

Razanur frowned and glanced over at the sleeping form of one of his professors.

_Sometimes history isn’t spelled out with old writings and tales, sometimes the story has to be pieced together like a puzzle._

“If I can continue?”

“Oh! Yes, sorry,” Razanur moved closer to one of the lanterns and settled back down. “Please, do continue.”

The sweet smell of the smoke drifted through the holes in their shelter but still left a stiff warmth behind and Galsha watched the boy for a moment, puffed a bit on his pipe, and then straightened. “Natela rode hard and long to get to the neighbouring kingdom, an ally created through marriage, in fact, as the Queen had been a princess which made the Golden General an honoured guest...”

oOo

As it was, when the king heard about his daughter being sick, he granted his granddaughter the ability to go to any libraries, scholarly houses, and universities to search for the curse for the poison. Natela took him to his word and travelled where she could to read what was available. Schools where she could speak with the highly educated scholars, libraries where the books were older than perhaps the kingdom itself, and even places of worship held no answers.

The answers were always the same; not what she was looking for, and so Natela tried one, last, desperate hope.

She went to the magicians.

Magic was, of course, not a frowned upon art at this time. It was rare, however. Rare and often not kind to those put under its thumb. The great witches and warlocks were feared and respected in kind for what they could do to anyone that made them angry.

It was easy for Natela, then, to look towards them for a curse to something that was not, in its own right, natural.  

A witch told her she was looking for the wrong thing. Known only as The Deceiver for her ability with illusions, she told Natela that dark magic fed upon the life source that created it, draining them as long as the spell they crafted continued to exist.

What was causing the Queen so much pain was not a dark curse, it was magic that kept the poison, a leaf from a plant far into the realm of sand to the west, alive. All that time searching for a way to end a curse, and it was a spell of life that was killing the Queen.

Do not look surprised, boy. Even now magic considered to be ‘light’ has been used to kill. Growing spells to make an abundance of poisonous plants to kill children and livestock, light magic to distract and steal, fire to burn our prisoners alive. Creativity has never stopped us; it is simply that dark magic must feed and requires a sacrifice from those who are using it.

Supposedly, then, there is no such thing as ‘dark’ and ‘light’ magic. Supposedly there is only magic and how ones uses it.

The person who poisoned the Queen was not a _good_ person—it takes a special kind of character to try to kill another, after all—and the magic that was on his blade was not his. But what did it matter whose magic it was? So Natela searched for a different answer.

She went back to the schools, to the libraries, to the places of worship, but no one could answer her.

‘The magic of life,’ they said, ‘was a sacred thing’.

‘Then where can I find it?’ Natela begged. ‘Where can I find the secrets to a sacred art?’

In the end, the answer wasn’t in the books or the scrolls or the minds of the most learned. No, she found it on the edge of the kingdom, in a small little village where a couple of children sang about a place called the Blessed Islands.

Barelleh, the place of the Life Water.


End file.
